Hands

God went to beauty school 

He went there to learn how

to give a good perm

and ended up just crazy 

about nails

so He opened up His own shop.

"Nails by Jim" He called it.

He was afraid to call it

Nails by God.

He was sure people would

think He was being

disrespectful and using

His own name in vain

and nobody would tip

He got into nails, of course,

because He'd always loved 

hands -

hands were some of the best things

He'd ever done

and this way He could just

hold one in His

and admire those delicate 

bones just above knuckles.

delicate as birds' wings,

and after He'd done that

awhile,

He could paint all the nails

any colour He wanted,

then say,

"Beautiful,"

and mean it.

~ Cynthia Rylant. 

This poem resonates. 

I can't tell you how many hours I spent, rubbing hand cream into Grandad F's hands, and Dad's hands, in the weeks (for Grandad) and days (for Dad) before they died. 

Hands are wonderful. 

Every pair is beautiful.